


A rose by any other name

by Tashilover



Category: Elementary
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, tragic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Would smell as sweet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A rose by any other name

Every morning was the same routine. At six, Sherlock got up to use the bathroom. He would shave, quickly shower, before heading to the kitchen to start breakfast. Breakfast mostly consisted of eggs and ham, nothing too greasy or high in sugar. On occasion he would make chocolate chip pancakes, if nothing but to see Watson smile.

By seven, Watson usually woke up. He would let her sleep the whole day away, except he knew it was best to keep a schedule. She never seems to get enough sleep these days.

Then he would go to her room and help her to her feet. In the morning her body was still weak and needed the extra help to get from the bed to the kitchen. She didn't seem to mind.

After settling her into a chair at the table, Sherlock served breakfast. He always made sure her portions were small and bite sized. Some days Watson was aware enough to pick up a fork, other days she would stare at the food as if it were a three headed dragon.

Today she wasn't even looking at the food. Her eyes were elsewhere, staring at some random spot on the table cloth.

"Finding the table cloth particularly interesting this morning, Watson?"

Maybe she did. It had a simple flower design on it. She had bought the table cloth from Walmart, sparking an argument between her and Sherlock which lasted for days. Even now, though he used it, he still believed the cloth to be cheap and ugly.

At the sound of her name, Watson lifted her eyes up to Sherlock. There was a passing recognition in them, and it made Sherlock's heart beat in false hope.

But no, as quickly as it came, it went. The glow in Watson's eyes dimmed away, and she looked back down at the random spot.

Sherlock reached over to pick up a fork, positioning it in her hand. As soon as he started the motion of moving the fork from food to her mouth, Watson continued with it, leaving Sherlock to finish his own plate.

After breakfast, Sherlock guided Watson to the bathroom where he helped her strip. She never cared much for this part as the cloth often scraped against her skin, making her itch. She'd fidget and squirm at the annoying sensation. Sherlock never let her scratch. In the beginning he used to let her scratch, but realized she would scratch for so long, she would often make herself bleed.

When her clothing did make her skin itch, Sherlock would sooth the irritation away quickly by gently rubbing the skin with lotion. He also made sure Watson's nails were always short, always filed down. Lest she scratch herself in the middle of the night.

After filling the tub halfway with lukewarm water, he helped Watson in. Depending on the day whether or not he needed to wash her hair, he would pin it up or keep it down. Today he needed to wash it.

Gregson had told Sherlock numerous times he should hire a full time nurse, someone who had the patience and experience to cater to Watson's needs. Sherlock didn't ignore him- not fully, anyways. There was a nurse on-standby, ready to come over at a moment's notice.

He called the nurse quite often in the beginning. Sometimes he'd been so overwhelmed, he left the Brownstone for hours, leaving Watson in the care of the nurse. Things were different now. He had a better handle on the situation. The schedule helped.

Sherlock wetted Watson's hair, gently pouring handfuls over her head, careful to keep the water out of her eyes. Once that was done, he lathered in shampoo, messaging Watson's scalp as he did so. She seemed to enjoy it.

After he rinsed out the shampoo, he washed Watson's body. No loofah, loofahs irritated her skin too much. Instead he used a wet rag to gently scrub her body. But no matter how soft he made his touch, Watson always hissed when he got to her arm.

"Sorry," Sherlock breathed. He gentled his touch even further, dabbing the cloth over the charred, tough skin. How can something so damaged still hurt so much? "Sorry."

After the bath, Sherlock rubbed special lotion on her body. He did this at least four times a day as her skin had the tendency to dry out faster than a piece of bread in open air.

By the time they were done with everything, it was usually close to ten-thirty.

If Watson seemed antsy, Sherlock would put on their coats and he would take her out for a walk around the block. He'd hold her hand, taking their time with each step. If someone dared to make a face or comment on Watson's appearance, Sherlock made them pay.

Today, it seemed Watson wanted a quiet day. She didn't say it -she has said nothing since the accident- but her body language indicated to Sherlock her mood. She wan't fidgety, her gaze was steady. When she wanted to move, to go outside, her fingers twitched, her eyes would glance constantly to the window. Sherlock had no idea if she was struggling to say something but couldn't, or if simple muscle memory was taking hold.

Sherlock put on a burned CD of Watson's favorite music. He positioned a chair to allow Watson to look out the window to the garden. He purposely planted plenty of flowers that would attract butterflies and humming birds. Then he sat Watson down in the chair.

He didn't let her sit for long. Only an hour at most. In the meantime, he used this moment of peace to check his emails, and perhaps solve a few crimes while he was at it. He took mostly high priced cases these days, to help pay for Watson's medical bills and treatment.

The only time he solved murder cases for Gregson were on the weekends. Miss Hudson often looked after Watson when Sherlock was off running around in New York.

For the next hour Sherlock solved three cases, all mundane and dull. He made at least three thousand dollars from those cases all together, so it wasn't a great lost. After billing the third solved case, Sherlock thought about what to make for lunch. He could have something delivered.

A sudden knocking at the front door broke Sherlock's concentration. The noise even startled Watson, who tensed in her chair. Sherlock got up to answer the door, swearing if there was a salesperson on the other side, he was going to chew them out.

It wasn't a salesperson. It was Detective Bell.

Marcus held up a bag from Panera, his eyebrows raised in silent invitation. Sherlock looked back at Watson, considering it. It might be nice for her to see a friend who wouldn't cry up in front of her. Sherlock couldn't stand the wailing lunatics who broke down sobbing every time they came here. He stepped aside to allow Marcus in.

"How is she?" Marcus asked, placing down the food at the kitchen table.

"The same," Sherlock said. "She's responding more to stimulus, to noises and such."

"Can I say hello to her?"

"You're welcome to."

Marcus rubbed his hands together, his usual tick when he was nervous. Sherlock turned away as Marcus kneeled down in front of Watson. "Hey, Joan."

Sherlock listened with a half-ear while he took food out of the Panera bag. Marcus told Watson some of his more interesting cases, a few jokes he read off the internet, and a updates from television shows Watson had missed.

She didn't respond to him.

Sherlock allowed Marcus to gently guide Watson to the kitchen, where he sat her down. He placed a napkin on her lap, and when he pulled the bowl of soup forward, Sherlock asked, "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

It was not jealousy. Sherlock was always antsy when someone other than him or Miss Hudson fed Watson.

"No," Marcus said. He blew gently on a spoonful of mushroom soup, cooling it. "I am where I need to be."

 

 

 

 

 

After Marcus left, Sherlock pulled out the special bottle of lotion. He needed to moisturise Watson's skin again.

"I've always admired your hands," Sherlock said, taking up her arm gently in one hand. No matter how many times he saw the scars, it always made him frown. "You had strong hands. Surgeon hands. I considered teaching you how to play the piano. I'd thought you would've been marvelous at it."

He needed to stop talking. He could feel the anger bubbling inside of him, spreading hotly across his chest.

In rehab, Sherlock was told over and over again he needed to learn the difference between what he was capable of, and what he couldn't change. He couldn't change the fact that he was an addict, that he'll always be an addict. His battle against drugs was something he was going to fight for for the rest of his life.

But being an addict was not his identity. He was Sherlock Holmes, detective, and damn anybody to hell who wanted to take that away from him. He couldn't change the past, but he can shape his future.

The accident that took Watson's mobility, her smile, her ability to talk, her mind- was nobody's fault. The roads were wet, the tires didn't have enough tractions. Shit happened and there was no way Sherlock or Watson could have prevented it.

And yet he felt like he could. Maybe if he had kept Watson inside the Brownstone for five minutes longer. Just five extra fucking minutes. Then maybe she wouldn't be like this. Instead she would be laughing at him, smiling, tilting her head as she listened to him speak.

"Watson..." Sherlock said for perhaps the millionth time. He kept his eyes down on her arm, gently rubbing the lotion in. "You know I love you, don't you?"

"...I..."

Sherlock's head snapped up to her. "Watson?" He nearly squeaked. "Did you say something to me?"

He waited. His ears strained, ready to catch any sound that could pass through her lips. He didn't dare blink, his eyes trained on her lips, waiting, willing for her to say something again.

Please, don't let it be a random noise.

Sherlock didn't dare move. He was determined to hear Watson's voice again. He couldn't change the past, but damn him if he couldn't change the future. He was going to hear her voice again.

All he had to do was wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic inspired by old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fic.


End file.
